Ghosts
by Aurelia Priscus
Summary: Dominic asks tough questions.


Dominic could see it building from a mile away, in the way Finch's shoulders tensed and his eyebrows furrowed as he hunched over the paper, frantically scribbling as his grip on the pencil tightened dangerously. Finch muttered a few inaudible words—curses, most likely—beneath his breath as he roughly erased most of the previous sentence, but the head of the eraser had become waxy and dull with disuse and age and from the expression on his face he'd done little more than smear the graphite. He pressed the pencil back to the page and finally it happened—the lead snapped.

The storm broke and Dominic watched, wincing, as Finch dug his fingers into the great stack of paper and hurled it wholesale to the floor. "Something wrong, Inspector?" he said, as Finch reluctantly knelt down to pick them up.

"It's nothing," Finch said, heaping the scattered forms and documents onto his chair. "It's just, it's all this bloody _paperwork. _We're out here, supposedly tracking one of the most dangerous terrorists this country has ever seen, and what do we get for our trouble? Requisition forms, tax forms, forms requesting different forms, _more_ requisition forms…"

Dominic moved to stand, but Finch waved him back. "Stay," he said, stacking the remaining loose papers onto the chair. "I've got it." He hesitated, one of the forms in his hands. He'd missed a signature. "I've been at this for over four hours, and I still don't know what half of it means"

"That's bureaucracy for you," Dominic said. "Last remaining vestige of four hundred years of British imperialism." He watched as Finch, laughing weakly, shoveled the papers from the chair to his desk. Finch slumped into his seat and, for a moment, his expression became distant.

It had been three days since they found the coroner dead and Finch had read the diary. Even after he'd talked to Dominic about his suspicions, Finch hadn't actually let him see the book. It wasn't Sutler's vitriolic fire and brimstone that stayed his hand—if anyone found out what they were already doing, they'd both be shot—but Dominic got the feeling it was almost too sensitive to share. Despite everything they'd learned, despite everything that had happened, on some level he still wanted to protect her.

Dominic watched as Finch rubbed his forehead and grudgingly returned to the paperwork spread out across his desk. Normally, on days like this that was all she wrote. Finch would bury himself in his work, with all of the steadfast dedication an investigator of his caliber could muster, and Dominic would keep his head down, hoping against hope that by the end of the day Finch had found whatever he was looking for. But watching his shoulders tense and eyebrows furrow Dominic could see the whole miserable cycle starting up again. Bullocks to that. His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed nervously. "You know, this isn't going to bring her back."

It was an educated guess, but Dominic liked to think his hunches were good for something. He watched Finch's face against his better judgment, searching his tired features for a confirmation of something he'd long suspected, but Finch's expression grew dark and inscrutable. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't want to share. "Dominic," Finch said warningly.

"Well it's true, isn't it?" He shouldn't have pushed. The moment he said it, he knew he shouldn't have pushed, and as Finch stiffened and it looked like that carefully impassive mask of his might fail Dominic could feel his own stomach churn. The guilt he understood—Finch was a quiet man, one of those unassuming, introverted types whose personal life was very much his own and Dominic didn't like to pry—but there was a dark, nameless fear that settled in his gut that he couldn't quite explain. Risking this, needing to help, needing to _know_… He was chiding himself for his own recklessness even as he spoke. "You cared about her, didn't you?"

"I did," Finch said quietly. "Once. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"No," Dominic said quickly. His heart was pounding in his chest and he prayed to God it didn't show. "I mean… I'm worried about you, Inspector. That's all." He gestured at the mess of documents and forms scattered across Finch's desk. "Usually you won't do paperwork unless I make you, but it's all you've done all afternoon."

Finch hunched back over his desk and fumbled for the pencil, buried beneath the papers. "I'm fine, Dominic," he said, finally. "Just leave me in peace, all right?"

"Of course, sir," Dominic said. "Sorry, sir." He turned back and stared at the records currently displayed on his computer screen, but he couldn't concentrate. He checked the dates against the hard copies from Larkhill a second time, but he was no closer to making sense of the information than when he'd started. Finally, Dominic eased back in his chair and, ostensibly checking his e-mail, watched Finch scrawl indecipherable notes to the accountants with the sharp, jerky strokes of a man caught beneath his own personal thunder cloud.

When Finch abruptly slammed the pencil back against the desk, it was all Dominic could do not to fall over in his chair. Once he'd regained his composure, Dominic looked over to see Finch rubbing his eyes with his hands. "You really want to know?" he said, looking over at him. His gaze was weary, but good-natured.

"Yes, Inspector," Dominic said. "I do."

"It's…" He hesitated. That distant, almost distracted look was back, and it seemed much of his anger had given way to weary resignation. "It's not that. Well, that's part of it, but it's not all of it. Not even most of it, really."

"Then what is it?"

"What she was, what she did…" He trailed off, but it didn't take much to fill in the blanks. He smiled grimly. "In the end, you can never really know a person, can you?"

It was probably obvious from Dominic's face that this wasn't the answer he'd expected, but once the words had finally been said he couldn't understand why he hadn't seen it sooner. Dominic's mouth opened, presumably because he intended to speak, but when the first words came he was still fumbling for something appropriate to say. "I suppose not, really," he said, awkwardly. "But that's no reason not to try."

It was insipid and uninspiring, but Finch's mood seemed to brighten, just a little. "Perhaps."

They settled back into their respective projects in comfortable silence, so far as the soft whirr of the computers would allow. Finch returned to his papers and Dominic turned on the stack of files that had been heaped haphazardly beside his desk. A note had been tucked into one of the folders, pointedly reminding him of the size of the favor this much time in the archives was going to cost him down the road. He crumpled the note in his hands and gave it a well-aimed toss in the direction of the rubbish bin. Three points, or something. He was a bit hazy on how basketball worked, but few people really played it these days, anyway.

"You enjoying yourself, then?" Finch's voice was stern, but the brightness in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

Dominic settled further back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Not really, no."

Finch looked back down at the light pink form lying in front of him, covered in checkboxes and frustratingly small print, and tossed it back, uncompleted, onto the pile. "Me neither, frankly. What time is it?"

Dominic checked his watch. "Six-thirty," he dutifully reported. The traditional work day had ended hours ago, but it usually didn't occur to Finch to leave until seven o'clock at least. "You actually suggesting we leave on time?"

Finch moved to speak, presumably to refute the accusation, but he hesitated. "I could kill for a curry."

"Curry?" Dominic said skeptically. The word was as strange as anything he'd ever heard, but it invoked vague childhood memories of colors and spices and exotic, foreign lands. "I don't think I've even _had_ curry before. Is it any good?"

"Really?" The look on Finch's face was one of genuine horror. Dominic had seen that look before—over cadavers, yes, but never in relation to food. Dominic wasn't sure whether he should be amused or troubled. "You're serious?"

Dominic shifted uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly painfully aware of his own ignorance. "It's Indian or something, isn't it?"

"Come on," Finch said, abruptly rising to his feet. He grabbed the jacket from the back of his chair and pocketed his keys. "Get your things. I know a place. Not authentic, but close as you can get these days, what with…" He stood in the doorway, watching Dominic's baffled expression. "Well, are you coming or not?"

"Inspector…" Dominic began.

"Come on, have dinner with me," he said. "Your mouth will love you forever."

With some reluctance, Dominic shut down the computer and set the files to one side. It was only when he crossed the room and caught a glimpse of the melancholy in Finch's expression that he realized the transformation probably wasn't as radical as it appeared. Hesitantly, he set a hand on Finch's arm. "Are you okay, Inspector?"

Finch took one last look at the paperwork, the forms and files and the ghosts they'd come to represent, and hit the light switch. After a moment, he nodded. "Yes," he said, hesitantly. "I will be."


End file.
